The talk of Mrs. Breston’s loss, coupled with his downtime habit of writing letters for a few of the soldiers, inspired him to write his own. What continued to surprise him was that none of the men spoke of battles or victories. Even their infirmities were quickly dealt with. What permeated their letters were memories of home, expressions of love for their family, and hope for a swift return to the life they had led before the war tore everything apart.
He took a bite of the apple Mrs. Driscoll had offered him for an evening snack and let his mind turn to his own letter.
He wrote “Dear” on the page then found himself stumped. Dear who?
He held his breath, waiting for a name to flow onto the page.
But there was no name. No family. No bosom friends who would value his letter.
“Gregory. I could write to Gregory and Mrs. Miller.”
The content of the soldiers’ letters was rich with memories of family and love and times shared. Although he held the Millers in high esteem—and they him—an invisible barrier existed between them, keeping master and servant in their proper places. Any letter to them would be filled with questions of logistics—and perhaps a note asking about their visit with their daughter. There was no common well of emotion to tap into, such as the emotion that filled the soldiers’ letters to overflowing.
When was the last time he’d written a heartfelt letter?
“Zona.”
To hear her name said aloud made him draw in a breath. He’d sent her numerous letters from Mexico and Texas.
Asking her forgiveness.
Begging for her understanding.
Declaring his love.
Defending his new ambition to become a doctor instead of a typesetter.
When he’d received no letters in return, he’d stopped writing, let the war end and his career in medicine continue.
Alone.
Without her.
His ambition had come at a cost he’d reluctantly been willing to pay.
Until now?
Depressed by the memories and emptiness, he set the pen back in its stand and returned the paper to a drawer.
Chapter 6
Cardiff was ready to slice into the soldier’s vein when he felt the presence of Mrs. Breston.
Again.
“May I help you?”
“You can help Corporal Statler by halting that venesection this very minute.”
Cardiff glanced at the soldier’s face to see his reaction to this act of insubordination, but luckily, the patient was sleeping.
In spite of this, Cardiff angled his back to him and drew Mrs. Breston into the main aisle that bisected the rows of beds. “I cannot let you interfere with the medical care that I deem necessary for my patients.”
“Cannot or will not?”
He felt his ire rise and took a deep breath to try to get himself under control. “Mrs. Breston—”
“Mother Breston. My boys call me ‘mother.’”
But I am not one of your boys.
He ignored the salutation. “I cannot”—he caught himself—“will not allow you to undermine my authority. I have been practicing medicine for nearly fifteen years.”
“Seems like you need more practice.”
Cardiff spotted Stephen and called him over. “Dr. Phillips, I insist you do something about this situation. It is highly improper for my decisions to be contradicted.”
Mrs. Breston folded a towel neatly over her arm. “Even if you’re wrong? The letting of blood only weakens a patient.”
“So that’s why it’s been practiced for hundreds of years?”
“They thought the earth was flat for longer than that, and it was proven wrong.”
“I am not wrong.”
She pointed at the patient. “Will it take the death of that boy to make you admit your mistake?”
Appalled, Cardiff took a step away, spreading his free hand toward his tormentor as if to say, You see what I have to deal with?
Stephen offered them a smile. “What stands before me are two capable people who are passionate about their professions. Surely you can find a point of conciliation between you for the good of the patient.”
Cardiff was incensed. If he didn’t have Stephen’s support, this woman was going to run rampant throughout the hospital, weakening his authority. How could he possibly be asked to work in such conditions?
He’d had enough of them both. “Excuse me. I have a patient to attend to.”
He returned to the soldier, adjusted the bowl beneath his arm, and sliced into his vein. Everyone knew that bloodletting was the course of treatment in regard to ridding the body of infection.
“The time for your carolers’ debut is here,” Mary Lou said as she accompanied Zona to the depot.
Zona’s stomach was knotted as she entered the train station to sing Christmas carols for the first time. She was relieved to see that all four of her designated quartet were already there, talking to the ladies of the Basket Brigade who were gathered for the evening train with their baskets of food and other comforts. She scanned the crowd, looking for Johnny.
He wasn’t there.
Mr. Pearson saw her, and the singers gathered close. “Where would you like us to stand?” he asked.
She wanted the singers close to the tracks so their voices would carry into the train. The wounded soldiers needed to see them from the train windows. She moved to a spot on the platform, front and center, waving her arms to claim the space for her singers. “Excuse me … if you don’t mind … we’re going to sing here … thank you.”
Mr. Pearson and Mr. Fleming used their height and male authority to further clear the space.
“There, now,” Zona said, trying out the spot where she would stand to direct them, her back to the train.
“Shall we start?” Mrs. Greer asked.
“The train’s not here,” Mrs. Smith said.
“I wouldn’t mind running through a piece,” Mr. Pearson said.
Zona knew that was a good idea, but she really wanted Johnny present, for he had never rehearsed with the quartet.
And then she saw him, walking toward her with his grandfather. And Mrs. Collins. And was that Seth? The smug smiles on the faces of the latter told the story of the day. They’d tattled. Somehow they knew everything and had shared their information with Mr. Folson.
Zona pursued her first instinct. “Let’s sing ‘Midnight Clear.’” She stood in front of her quartet, fumbled for her pitch pipe, and unable to retrieve it in a timely manner, gave them a random note as they quickly got in place. She raised her arms and gave the downbeat. “‘It came upon a midnight clear …’”
She dared not look beyond her singers, but goose bumps traveled up her arms knowing the army of protesters was heading her way. She wasn’t even able to enjoy the appreciative faces of the Basket Brigade ladies who gathered around.
As the song neared its end, she tried to think of another, but her mind was blank.
Then Mrs. Collins strode forward and took a place at the edge of the quartet, next to Mr. Fleming.
“Miss Evans.”
Her throat was dry. “Mrs. Collins.” She glanced beyond the woman to see Johnny, under his grandfather’s arm, his eyes downcast.
Seth pushed in between the women. “You met with Johnny in secret. I followed you! I saw you!”
Mrs. Collins moved to Zona’s side, facing the audience of the crowded depot. “I’m afraid Miss Evans has abused her position as musical director by ignoring the wishes of Mr. Folson regarding the participation of his grandson.” She beckoned the man closer. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Folson?”
The man placed Johnny in front of him, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “I forbade it, and she ignored my wishes.”
Murmurs flit across the crowd like fireflies.
“Why did you do it?” Lucy Maddox asked. “We appreciate your musical talent, but to go against the family’s wishes …”
Others nodded.
Zona glanced at Ma
ry Lou, who looked as unnerved as she. Zona wanted to flee, yet the glee with which Mrs. Collins and Seth called her out pressed her need for escape aside and ignited the fuller truth.
She raised her arms in the air, quieting the crowd. “Yes, I went against Mr. Folson’s wishes but with good reason.”
Mrs. Collins raised her voice above Zona’s. “So your authority supersedes that of a grandfather?”
“No, I mean …” She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to find the words to make it right. Her thoughts landed on the core of her deception, the justification for her actions. She moved through the crowd and faced Johnny and his grandfather. She cleared her throat and addressed Mr. Folson. “Your grandson has a great gift. He sings with a depth of talent greater than anyone I have ever heard.”
Johnny glanced up at her, smiled, then looked down again.
“That may or may not be true,” Mr. Folson said. “But it is not your gift to commandeer.”
“Nor is it your gift to hoard.”
Oohs spread through the crowd, and she heard Mary Lou whisper, “Zona …”
Zona sighed, knowing her words had been too harsh. “Have you ever heard him sing?”
“That’s not the point. I forbid it.”
“But it is the point,” she said. She spotted Pastor Davidson nearby and moved toward him. “Pastor! Please tell Mr. Folson about his grandson’s great gift.”
Pastor Davidson moved close, his face twitching a bit under the sudden scrutiny. “It is true, Mr. Folson. Johnny’s voice is unlike any I have ever heard. I can’t imagine the angels singing any better.” He took a step toward Mr. Folson. “Your daughter used to sing with such conviction and joy. The boy has her gift—and more. Gifts are meant to be shared, Herman.”
Zona saw the muscles in Mr. Folson’s jaw contract. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Hearing him sing reminds me of my Violet.” He shook his head, looking to the ground. “God took her away from me, and little Flora, too.” When he looked at Zona, his eyes glistened. “My heart breaks every time I think of ’em. And music makes me think of ’em.”
Johnny looked up at his grandfather. “I remember Mama singing. I sing for her, to remember her. And I want to sing for the soldiers. It makes me think of Papa, off somewhere, fighting.”
Zona’s throat tightened, and she noticed more than one hand brought to a mouth, moved by the boy’s words.
Everyone’s attention was diverted when the sound of a train whistle announced its pending arrival.
Zona had one last chance. “Please, Mr. Folson. Let him sing to the men. For his mother. And his pa.”
Mr. Folson glanced at Pastor Davidson, who offered him a nod. He drew in a deep breath and let it out with the words, “Go on, then. Sing.”
The depot platform surged with commotion as the women of the Basket Brigade scurried to get in place to board the train. Zona led Johnny to the other singers and set him at the center. “When I tell you, sing ‘O Holy Night.’”
“All by myself?”
She looked at the other singers. “All by yourself.”
They nodded their assent, and Mr. Fleming said, “You can do it, boy. Sing for your ma and pa.”
The train pulled in with a rush of air, smoke, and sound. The wheels squealed to a stop. Zona gave Johnny an encouraging smile and used the pitch pipe to give him a note. When she heard him hum it, she moved beside Mrs. Smith so the soldiers could fully see the source of the voice.
Then he began.
“‘O holy night, the stars are brightly shining …’”
The song rang off the metal of the train and filled the platform, as if the heavens had opened up and let the songs of the cherubim descend. All eyes were on the boy, the business of delivering baskets or greeting passengers momentarily forgotten.
Zona could see the faces of the soldiers on the train, craning to see the singer. Their hurting eyes softened, and she saw many ease their heads to their pillows, wallowing in the music.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Folson’s reaction. His face was lifted to the sky, as if searching for his daughter and granddaughter. Tears flowed down his cheeks, yet he was smiling.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You for making it all turn out.
The song ended, and a moment of respectful silence fell upon them. Johnny looked around, his face panicked. But then the applause and congratulations assured him that all was right with the world.
Johnny seemed to care nothing for the praise of others but ran into his grandpa’s arms.
“Did you like it? Did you, Grandpa?”
Mr. Folson kissed the top of his head. “It was a gift. You are a gift.”
Zona’s heart was full to overflowing. As the women commenced the delivery of the baskets, her quartet began singing the carols.
The evening was complete when Johnny joined them, his face radiant with joy.
As was Zona’s heart.
Cardiff was just about to leave for the day and was making the rounds of his patients. Most were doing well.
But when he came to Corporal Statler’s bedside, he was appalled to see that his face was gray. He felt his forehead and listened to his heart. The man was cold and the heartbeat weak. His breathing was shallow.
I’m losing him.
He checked the slit in the man’s arm where the blood had been taken. His arm was limp. Lifeless. He touched his hand. He looks as if all the life has drained out of him.
All blood.
For a moment, he questioned the venesection he’d performed. The practice usually worked, but—
“Seems like you need more practice.”
The possibility that Mrs. Breston could be right—at least in this case—disrupted his equilibrium and shook his confidence. He made fists, trying to force the doubt away.
“I’m concerned,” Mrs. Breston said as she approached the bed.
Although it was hard to admit, Cardiff agreed. “So am I.”
She smoothed the sheets and ran a hand through Statler’s hair. “Come on, son. Come back to us. Your wife and son need you at home.”
“He’s married? With a boy?”
Mrs. Breston nodded. “His wife’s name is Abby, and his son, Caleb, is three.”
Cardiff turned to leave then thought better of it. “I think I’ll stay with him, to see him through the night.”
Mrs. Breston nodded and pulled two chairs close. “Let us keep vigil together.”
They settled into chairs, angled toward each other on the right side of his bed. Then Mrs. Breston surprised Cardiff by saying, “I apologize for being so brusque. My late husband used to chide me for my lack of tact.”
“I could use a bit of that myself.”
She adjusted the cuffs of her black dress. “I also know that my ways may seem revolutionary and sit against the grain.”
“They do. And whether you wish to believe it or not, I do have experience with soldiers. I worked in an army hospital during our war with Mexico.”
“My issue lies in the observation that not much has changed for this war. There are still too many unsuccessful amputations. And still the disturbing, unsanitary conditions.”
“I assure you we always try our best to save a limb.”
She nodded. “I’m sure you do. It’s not you in particular, Dr. Kensington. It’s the medical field in general that I battle. Common sense is often absent. Beyond the tending of their wounds, what the boys need are clean bodies, unsoiled sheets, fresh air, and healthy food.”
Her thinking was far too simplistic. “They need more than that.”
“Indeed they do,” she said. “They need doctors to wash their hands and surgical instruments. They need time for the body to heal itself through rest and common care.”
“In the field, there was often no time to wash.”
“There must always be time to wash! We’ve both seen how even the simplest of cuts heals faster when it is kept clean. Doesn’t it make sense that larger wounds would react the same?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, Doctor. There is too much we don’t know about the body and how it works. Until that knowledge is obtained, we must use logic and common sense to do our work.”
He knew there was no arguing with her.
She plucked at the fabric of her apron. “My George would still be alive if he’d been taken to a hospital that possessed sanitary conditions.”
Cardiff remembered Mrs. Driscoll’s mention of Mrs. Breston’s loss. “I am so sorry.”
“As am I.” She took a fresh breath. “His death was the impetus to my fervor regarding the boys’ care. If someone had been there for my son George, I am convinced he would not have died.”
They lacked proof one way or the other, and battlefield conditions often negated any consideration for care beyond what was quick and nominal. But Cardiff knew this moment was not a time for proofs but a time for compassion. “Again, I am sorry for your loss.” He tried to find a happier subject. “You mentioned two other sons?”
She smiled. “Timothy and Carl. I am very blessed.” Thinking of her boys seemed to clear the sorrow from her face. “Do you have anyone back home, waiting for you?”
“No. There’s just me.”
“Was there anyone?”
He balked.
She reached across the space between them. “There was someone, wasn’t there?”
Cardiff looked around the ward. Most of the soldiers were sleeping. What would it hurt to tell this woman the truth? “Her name was Zona.”
“That’s a distinctive name.”
“She was a distinctive woman.”
“Was?”
“Probably still is. We were engaged but lost track of each other.”
“On purpose?”
He thought of his unanswered letters. “On her part. I wrote letters while I was off in the other war. She did not answer me.”
“Perhaps she didn’t get them.”
He’d never thought of that. “I assumed she did.”
She slapped his knee. “You let an assumption dictate your life?”
It sounded as lame as it was. “She went her way and I went mine.”
Mrs. Breston’s hands fluttered around her head. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing. You let a woman you love get away without going after her? Talking to her in person? Making sure it’s what you both wanted?”
A Basket Brigade Christmas Page 27
